


blow smoke in your eyes

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands are the first to go.</p><p>Not much of it, only the tremor of a single muscle, a hairline fracture.<br/>It's not so bad, it's – he still has control. It's more subtle like, a serpent squeezing itself around his fingers and nudging, gentle, patient, while its teeth pump poison through his bloodstream. Except, really, it's his heart that's doing that all on its own, isn't it? His weak, weak heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blow smoke in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> the companion piece to this one is "silently we leap across the darkness"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**blow smoke in your eyes**

 

_and it gets in your eyes_

_you're a_

_murder machine_

 

_lost the key_

_turn it off_

_it goes round and out, out and_

_out_

 

 

 

 

His hands are the first to go.

 

Not much of it, only the tremor of a single muscle, a hairline fracture.

It's not so bad, it's – he still has control. It's more subtle like, a serpent squeezing itself around his fingers and nudging, gentle, patient, while its teeth pump poison through his bloodstream. Except, really, it's his heart that's doing that all on its own, isn't it? His weak, weak heart.

 

Anyway, in the morning, he wakes up. Blinking against the ceiling in disorientation, the drag out of his dreams is slow. It takes time until he's. Aware.

He slept on top of the covers, in his clothes. How did he even sleep? Memories of yesterday are – hazy. There was the pain in his head, the hit that took him down and dropped him to his knees at the feet of those men. The – and then they were in the car, the silence inside so heavy it ground painfully against the buzzing in his head.

 

But the bunker. He doesn't remember –

 

Dean gets up from his bed all in a rush, wedges the door open, heart pounding frantically. The door isn't locked. Outside, nothing but the empty hallway stares back at him. He shivers. Closes the door again, but not all the way, not so that the lock clicks.

 

Shame is pooling in his gut, acid and emptiness. He feels anger, somewhere, that he's in here. Free, unrestrained, _alive_. With nobody watching him. Nobody –

 

But the defeat drowns out everything else. For now.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean's motherfucking tired, but that won't help anyone. Might be better he stays tired, actually. And he needs a shower, desperately.

 

He starts pulling clothes out of his drawer – he tries not to think, but he's shivering with the feeling that this might be the last time he's gonna do this. Everything is too sharp in focus, his brain trying to burn it into memory. He grits his teeth against it, pulls at the clothes frantically.

 

Dean's trying to pull a dark green shirt out from an abundance of lighter ones when it happens. With a small spasm, barely noticeable, the fingers of his right hand, instead of grabbing the cloth, fall away from it. He blinks, and by then has instinctively taken hold of another shirt. It's dark brown and beige, with some stripes of yellow and light red. He has no idea where it's even come from.

 

He stands there, frozen, for a solid minute.

 

His fingers clench around the fabric, hard enough that it hurts. He should – put it away again, it's not the one he wanted. But that's just it, isn't it?

 

Dean starts to laugh then, humorlessly and bitter, only his throat is raw, all closed up. He cuts it off. In his empty room, the sound is strange and painful.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

The room with the showers is too big.

 

Wide open space. So easy to get lost in. It's wrong. Dean shouldn't – there just shouldn't be that much space, where he is.

 

He stares at the white tiles for a suspended moment, feels and not feels a phantom weight in his hand. It takes force then, to clench his fingers around that emptiness, and he moves his legs forward, mechanically. At the sink, he keeps his head down.

 

Showering used to be a good thing. That brief respite from his own thoughts, the way the hot water was sliding down his back, softly, like he could pretend –

 

None of that now. The water is pin bricks on his shoulders. Maybe there are bruises there. He doesn't look.

 

Dean can grab for the soap, his fingers closing around it safely, but touching his skin hurts. Like it's been scraped raw, sore. The warmth doesn't even seem to seep into it. Instead, he finds himself shivering under the flow of water, the steam choking him.

 

He heart starts beating unevenly, too fast, and he can feel the panic building. He slaps a hand against the tiles, hard, and bites back the sound of agony behind his teeth.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

The conversation with Sam and Cas goes about as well as expected.

 

Sam looks worried, and weary. It twists shame and acid in Dean's gut; this is the last, the motherfucking last thing he'd wanted. He'd said his endgame was to have Sam out and safe, happy, he'd said he was gonna do it alone. And he failed. He didn't even –

 

Cas can't even look at him.

 

He looks tired too, stressed. Stupid fucking Cas. He always wants to help, feels responsible.

 

What Cas suggests they do is outrageous.

 

What will happen if they don't do anything might be worse, of course.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

He corners Dean when Dean's in the kitchen. It seems kind of redundant being here, making lunch. Wrong, too. His hands no longer feel safe, handling food items.

 

But it's the least he can do, and he's. He's missed this. Hunger for the simple pleasure of having your stomach filled and sated is a strange thing, now. Dean's not sure he can keep anything down that isn't well, liquid. But Sam will, maybe even Cas.

 

He has no idea what Cas likes, he thinks, while setting a bag of brown rice to boil.

 

It makes sadness pool in his chest, and he stares at the array of vegetables in front of him kind of forlorn. They're unevenly cut. He'd avoided using the good, big knives.

 

It's when he's stirring some tomato sauce, focused on his task with his mind absent, that Cas appears at his elbow.

 

Dean throws him a quick glance, then looks back down. There doesn't seem to be anything he could say at this point.

 

Cas seems to be content to let the silence stretch for a few moments, but then Dean sees him frown at the edge of his vision.

 

“Dean, your hands are shaking.”

 

Dean looks up at Cas, confused, but Cas isn't looking at him. He starts reaching for Dean's hands and Dean freezes. His heart starts pounding again, he realizes how close Cas is like this, how long it's been since – but short of touching Dean's skin, Cas' fingers stop. Cas sucks in a shuddering breath and steps away. He averts his gaze. He looks angry. Dean stares at him.

 

Cas shakes his head, swallows heavily. He's still scowling. Then he rushes out of the kitchen without another word.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Sam notices the uneven slices of vegetables, and that the sauce is slightly burned, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he casts fitful glances at Dean every few minutes. Like Dean is gonna spontaneously combust right then and there.

 

But hey. Realistically that might be in the cards for him.

 

He feels cold instead though. Freezing. It takes conscious effort to hold onto the cutlery, and he finally gives up on it entirely. It's not like he felt like eating more, anyway.

 

Since the whatever-it-was in the kitchen, Cas has disappeared to – somewhere. Dean hadn't asked.

 

Sam shoots him another concerned look then, and Dean starts scratching at the wood surface of the library table in nervousness.

 

He clears his throat, fights down another shiver.

 

“Sam, listen, I wanted to say so-”

 

Sam shifts in his seat, and the knife he's holding clinks against his plate with too loud a noise when he lowers his hands.

 

“I know. But first, we're gonna get you through this. It's gonna work, Dean.”

 

Dean nods silently, but has to look away. He moves his hand from the surface of the table to under it, smoothing over the rough wood there, back and forth, again and again.

 

It's only when Sam goes back to his research and his preparations, and Dean moves to clear their plates away, that he notices that he's bleeding. The fingers of his right hand, the ones he'd moved restlessly over the wood without even noticing what he was doing, without even registering the pain, until now. The skin there is scraped away in places, bleeding sluggishly. It burns, all the way up his arm.

 

In the kitchen, he lets cold water flow over it, trying to clear away the bits of wood.

 

The burn stays.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He cleans the kitchen then, for hours. It's not easy, with the tape he had to apply to his fingers, but it keeps his head empty. He can hear Sam and Cas in the library, sometimes. He figures, if they'll need his help, they're gonna ask. Dean's reluctant to leave, anyway.

 

He doesn't wanna sit down, much less lie down. His feet hurt, kind of. He has no idea how long he's been in here.

 

Dean avoids the drawers with the knives, only touches them to sweep overt the surfaces, again and again. He doesn't wanna overlook anything. Or maybe he can't remember where he already cleaned.

 

At one point, he thinks he hears footfalls in the hallway, coming to a stop inside the open doorway, shifting their weight around. Sam says something, then says goodnight. Dean says something back, but doesn't turn around. He swears this place is still dirty. He can _feel_ it.

 

Dean's feet are reluctant to leave, but finally, his arms simply become to heavy, his shoulders to achy, to keep it up.

 

Shortly later, he finds himself in front of his door.

 

It's closed. Did he close it? Why is it closed?

 

He puts a hand flat against the wood, as if expecting a heartbeat there. It's an odd thought, there and gone again. It frightens him. He tears himself away, unable to breach even that simple a barrier.

 

He goes to wander through the hallways instead.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean walks past the kitchen at some point.

 

The light there is on, but no one seems to be inside. He almost keeps walking, but then there's this sound. Like a scraping of rock against sand, but sharper. More dangerous.

 

He'd know it anywhere.

 

His heart misses a beat, speeds up. His palms are sweating but icy cold. He turns around, slowly, retraces his steps.

 

The kitchen isn't empty.

 

Cain is there, and he's pulled the drawer open. The one Dean steered away from, that made his bones rattle and vibrate under his skin.

 

He has a knife in his hands, the blade gleaming in the artificial light. The scraping sound is him, taking the knife to his skin and raking it over it, back and forth, endlessly. The skin doesn't break.

 

There's someone else, somewhere behind and to Cain's right. But the doorway is obstructing Dean's view, and he cannot move, can't tear his gaze away.

 

Cain doesn't look over to acknowledge Dean. “Do you know,” he says, slowly, but with a cutting edge to his voice, “what it takes? Do you know, Dean?”

 

He begins to turn, the knife hovering in the air and turning with him.

 

Dean is terrified.

 

There's a ripping in the air, like the electricity set too high. Dean's vision grays, tilts to the side, and the dark side of the doorway comes rushing at him fast.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He comes back to someone shaking him.

 

He sucks in a breath, and it's like his lungs constrict around it, choking. His heart is beating so fast, he can barely feel anything else around it. It's like he had just been drowning.

 

Dean flails around the hands holding onto his shoulders, instantly in a panic. Where is he – _where_.

 

“Dean – Dean, calm down.”

 

He freezes.

 

He turns around half-way, his legs barely able to hold him up, shaking so badly he almost overbalances. Cas is standing at his back, holding Dean up by keeping a tight grip on his shoulders. His face looks grave, stricken. Cas' eyes are shining with what looks like fear.

 

Dean breathes out and shudders, gasping, his gaze raking around frantically. He's – in the kitchen. The cupboards and the drawers are in front of him, and he still has a death grip on the counter that is turning his knuckles white. The tapes from earlier have halfway peeled away to reveal the broken skin beneath.

 

“Cas – w-why am I here?!”

 

Cas shifts closer, presses against Dean's shoulders and tugs, trying to get him to move away.

 

“Dean, you have to sit down. You fell asleep on your feet, I don't even know how long. I couldn't – ”

 

Cas swallows, his fingers scrunching up the fabric of Dean's shirt, shaking, “I could barely get you to wake up.”

 

Dean stares at him, the breath stopping in his throat. His hands grip the counter even tighter, and he's dimly aware that he's trembling all over.

 

“Dean?”

 

When Dean doesn't answer, Cas reaches around him and gently pries Dean's hands away, takes them in his own and rakes his thumbs over the knuckles. He shoulders Dean's weight, and more drags than guides him over to one of the chairs. Dean can't sit down though. His feet won't let him. His ribcage feels like it's gonna collaps in on itself if he doesn't stay standing.

 

Cas tugs at him again, gently, worry etched into every line of his face. Cas opens his mouth, but doesn't seem to know what to say. He falls forward then, buries his face in Dean's chest and moves his arms around Dean to keep him upright. Cas sobs, once. Dean can feel Cas' fingers dig into his back.

 

He wants to hold Cas close in return, but his arms won't go up.

 

He leans his head against Cas' then, closes his eyes, his breath a hitched shudder in his chest. Distantly, he thinks he might be crying.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean's in the kitchen again before he knows anything else. He sweeps his hands over the closed top drawer, once, twice. Pulls it open.

 

He has to know. What it takes.

 

He takes the knife in his hand. Nothing happens. But the shaking doesn't stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
